


you duck some, you take some square

by homsantoft (tofsla)



Series: everyone's got someplace they want to be let in [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Open Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 14:30:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6809011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofsla/pseuds/homsantoft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zevran tells Brosca about his night with Dorian & Bull. A morning of something like peace, for people who live under fire.</p><p>(sequel to "everyone's got someplace they want to be let in")</p>
            </blockquote>





	you duck some, you take some square

When Zevran wakes, it is to bright sunlight streaming through the windows and the fortress full of life. What woke him? The door, perhaps. Brosca's irritated grunt at the stiffness of his spine as he sets down food and tea. It has never been the same, not since Fort Drakon. The archdemon's leg caught him square in the chest, slammed him back into a broken wall so that his spine bent terribly, and Zevran had been able to do nothing but fight on, teeth clenched, uncertain if there was any longer a point to the thing. Had been able to do nothing but trust to Wynne's skill.

But they had lived.

The pain, always lingering, grew worse this last year, as though summoned by a false song in the head, whispering that the time had come. If it is passed, the tension of it is not. It might return. It will, one day, return, if they don't succeed.

They must succeed. By his power, Leliana's, Morrigan's—

Zevran has never been able to stop himself counting the years.

"Come here," he mumbles, rolls to the side and pats the spot where the sheets are warm from his body. "Leave your wretched clothes. But bring the oil."

Brosca laughs, but he's compliant enough, for once. Stretches out on his stomach, arms folded beneath his head; groans as Zevran straddles him, legs spread wide over his broad hips. Warm oil, and broad firm strokes of the hands, working methodically up either side of his spine and down again, working the knots out of tense muscles that overcompensate constantly for a hidden weakness.

A pained noise. A sigh of relief.

"Talk to me," Brosca says. "Who did you find."

"Hmm," Zevran says. "Two people. One I think you've met. Such a fine figure of a Qunari. His build puts Sten quite to shame. Those horns!"

"I'll tell Sten you said he's inferior," Brosca says, laughter in his voice. Rolls his shoulders, joints cracking. "I know who you mean. The Tal-Vashoth. He's smart. I liked him. Sten's pissed about him already, just so you know."

"You learned to write only to slander me to all your friends," Zevran says. "I'm terribly proud. But yes, the Iron Bull. Also a Tevinter mage, if you would believe it. Dorian Pavus is his name. They are—I should say lovers, although what they would call themselves I don't know. Perhaps they are less than clear on this point themselves."

Brosca huffs a laugh. "This is starting to sound pretty familiar," he says. "In several ways."

"I have no idea what you might be referring to," Zevran says; leans forward to work at Brosca's neck with his thumbs, lets his fingers brush for a moment against the gold ring in Brosca's ear. Sighs. "They seemed terribly in love. It made me think of a time when we were younger."

"It makes me think of the time you fucked the Champion of Kirkwall _and_ Isabela, without inviting me, and it ended with—"

"Yes, yes, I haven't forgotten," Zevran says. Presses a kiss to Brosca's hairline, neck bare where his long hair has been wound into knots for the day. "How could I forget. If I forgot then I would be forced to stop making fun of Isabela for all the things she said to us that day in Denerim."

"Love is a fool's game," Brosca says, in a fair imitation of her tone, if not her accent.

Zevran grins.

"Tell me about the sex," Brosca says, tenacious as ever. "Don't distract me. They're in love. I'm sure you didn't help. What was it like?"

"Well," Zevran says, "you know it has happened sometimes that I may get a little competitive—"

Laughter. "A _little_ ," Brosca agrees.

"I am not, as it turns out, the only one," Zevran says. Sits back, satisfied with his work.

Beneath him, Brosca's hips are shifting a little, small restless movements inhibited by Zevran's weight upon him.

"Are you hard?" Zevran asks, delighted.

"I may be, if you get on with telling me the damn story," Brosca says. "Wait, wait, let me roll over."

Brosca is, as it turns out, hard.

He guides Zevran back to kneel above him once more, the soft swell of his stomach against Zevran's balls, his cock resting against Zevran's arse. Considers, and then coaxes him a little closer, so that Zevran kneels across his chest instead. A hand on his thigh. The other fumbles after the massage oil.

"I have bedded the Bull once before," Zevran says. "Mm—not that a bed was involved, I suppose—oh. He was the biggest I've ever had."

"How big?" Brosca asks, grins at Zevran's gestures of approximation; not a good deal thicker than Brosca, but much longer. "I can get you a bigger toy than that. Paragon, remember?"

"Maker save me," Zevran gasps, cock swelling, both because of the image and because Brosca is pressing his thumb firmly against Zevran's hole, rocking it back and forth without pushing it inward. His fingers dig roughly into Zevran's arse. "A Paragon of ruining my life with unfairly exciting sex, is it?"

"I try," Brosca says. "You like that, huh? Seeing how much you can take. We don't do that often. We should. We will."

"There are so _many_ things I enjoy," Zevran says, in the interests of fairness. "Oh—do it. Something so big you can see what you're doing to me from the outside. I thought about that, you know, the first time the Bull fucked me." He presses a hand to his stomach in demonstration. "I had forgotten, until I saw him again."

" _Fuck,_ " Brosca says. Tugs sharply at Zevran's hip so that Zevran is forced to sink down onto his thumb—a terrible fate, truly.

He moans appreciation.

"He didn't fuck me at all this time," Zevran says. "Dorian and I fucked him, rather. He is so large and strong, and we bound him so that he couldn't move his arms, and we _ruined_ him. Such a mess we made of him. He will not soon forget. He took both of our cocks at once, in the end. I would not have thought his interests ran in that direction, but—"

Brosca groans, shifts his hand around beneath Zevran, pushes into him again with two of his broad, blunt fingers. The drag of calluses, the thick knots of his knuckles—his worker's hands rough on Zevran's skin, rubbing delightfully inside him.

Long years of familiarity: Brosca can find the spot inside Zevran that sends knife-sharp arousal jolting through him with barely any effort. He applies himself to the task without mercy now, setting Zevran's hips jerking, his cock growing achingly hard, damp with precome.

"Keep talking or I'll stop," he says, blunt, wonderful. A silent agreement passes between them. Familiar forms. 

Zevran nods his consent.

So this is how it is to be today: 

No softness to be had in Brosca's words, not now; that is for quieter mornings, eating breakfast together by an open window. For candlelight and peace, the slow rock of their bodies together, Brosca holding him tight. 

It is for after. 

Here, for the moment, they play a different game. It is for Zevran to come apart. It is for Brosca to watch it happen.

So Zevran talks. Talks and talks, the shade of Dorian's skin in the dim light, the shadow of stubble on the Bull's jaw, rough against Zevran's fingers. Dorian's mouth and the taste of the Bull's come passing between them. The Bull's face bare and vulnerable—

He falters at a sharper shift of Brosca's fingers inside him, shudders through an orgasm that is not an orgasm, arms braced against the wall above the bed, mouth open on a helpless moan—one of Brosca's favourite tricks, long practiced, until he could wring Zevran out, drive him out of his mind, make him come again and again and again without spilling.

He does so now.

And still Zevran talks, voice breaking, sentences fragmenting. He talks for a long time, hardly knows what he says—love, love—do you remember—he looked just like you, that night when—

Oh, oh, _oh_ —

Brosca's hand rubs soothingly against his side; stretches up to press softly to his lips.

A question.

Zevran nods confirmation; nearly screams as Brosca renews his efforts, trembling, his head bowed between his arms. Brosca's hand splayed on his chest, a support, a reassurance. You won't fall.

Dampness spreads on Brosca's chest, smears across it with every movement of Zevran's hips. Zevran is so aroused that it's just barely the right side of too much, too good, his balls tight, his cock pulsing with every heavy heartbeat.

Again.

"I," Zevran says, hoarse, "it—they—"

No words come. Spirit-whispers buzzing in his head, vibrating at the base of his skull.

He pants. His hips jerk violently, beyond his control.

"Enough," Brosca says sharply. He stills. Zevran slumps against the supporting pressure of his hand. "Hey, breathe. Don't you dare pass out on me."

He waits, watches. Zevran can feel the scrutiny even before he can remember himself sufficiently to meet Brosca's gaze. A patient stillness. To be weighed. Loved, in touches, silently.

It is only when Zevran's breaths have grown deep and even that Brosca's fingers withdraw, so carefully; hands guide him back, settle him so that he can feel Brosca's cock against his arse once again; shift him a little so that it rubs between his cheeks. This, too, is a question.

"Yes," Zevran breathes.

Brosca throws him, tumbles him onto the bed; face down, hips lifted with rough hands, no pillow for support. A reminder of strength. It shudders through Zevran, that casual display. No way for him to get friction on his cock without reaching back to stroke himself.

He refrains.

More oil.

Brosca buries his cock in Zevran in one long push. Holds him there, making him feel it, the fullness, the press of his balls against Zevran's. His hands on Zevran tighten, bruisingly hard.

Zevran cries out.

"Can you talk," Brosca asks, "or is your bravado over with now?"

Zevran fumbles after words, pants out sharp little breaths, ha, ha—

"You overestimate yourself," he says. Hears the lie in his own voice. His body heats wonderfully at being caught out, at being so _known._

Brosca laughs, harsh, even as his hands gentle on Zevran's hips. He begins to move, a minute rocking of his hips which is more a tease than anything.

"Don't bother," he says. Leans forward, one hand lifting to stroke along Zevran's spine with the backs of his fingers, to rub at the sensitive skin just above his arse, slow touches.

"Love—" Zevran says. Feels the word torn from him, the truth of it necessary, confessional, a tiny edge of surprise to the weight of it every time, after so many years. "Oh—"

"Yeah," Brosca says, softly; and there, there, that part of the game is done. "Alright. There you are. You good?"

"Yes," he says. Is beyond good; is happy, ludicrously, perfectly. Has settled, although he will not recognise it until later, deep enough below the turbulent surface of his mind to let go of the year past; to let go of the years to come. To only feel loving, beloved. To only _feel._

He is lowered onto the bed, Brosca settling heavily above him, still buried inside him. 

Kisses to his back. Brosca's forehead pressed to him, Brosca's uneven breaths shuddering against his skin.

"You're fucking incredible," Brosca says.

Slow rolls of his hips. No, not brutal, not as he had been earlier.

Zevran rocks up against him, sheets dragging against his cock; gasps on every exhale, soft little noises. He is still terribly aroused, terribly hard, so long denied.

Brosca's hands shifting him gently to be able to reach beneath him, close a hand around his cock—these things are a shock, although they should not be. Zevran's hands fist helplessly, tangle in the messy sheets of the unmade bed. Only small touches, careful, never overwhelming; he is so sensitive, a mess of overstimulation. He could hardly take more.

Shudders through Brosca's orgasm—the unsteady twitching of his cock inside Zevran, the convulsive tightening of Brosca's body against his back, on and on—as though it had been his own, mouth open, working, voiceless now.

"Shh," Brosca says. Pulls carefully out. Zevran shudders at this too.

He is turned over again, blinks hazily up at Brosca, at the flush spreading from his face down to his chest, at his hard nipples, the thick hair around them. Struggles to find his balance in the face of it all, how handsome Brosca is, how gorgeous he looks now, sated, softened. He can feel Brosca's come slipping out of him, is still aroused enough to find it fascinating and enticing rather than uncomfortable. How well used he is.

"You want to come now?" Brosca asks, touches Zevran's hand, brings it to his mouth as he had touched Zevran's mouth earlier, a curious mirroring. Kisses the knuckles. 

Reverence. 

He has always thought Zevran a gift, in bed and out of it. Zevran struggled, once, to understand it.

Zevran nods. 

Brosca bends himself to Zevran's cock, breathes hot against it, kisses it—gently, gently.

Swallows around it.

That's more or less all it takes.

It is his whole body he feels it with. 

He is still shaking with aftershocks when Brosca kisses him. Come in his mouth. Zevran moans, shivers, kisses him eagerly.

And then they are still.

"You're fucking incredible," Brosca says again. "Zevran—"

Touches his face; holds him, strokes his hair. Murmurs quiet words that mean _I love you_. 

Sometimes they take their true form. Often they are disguised. It has been difficult, for Brosca, who came of age to fucking furtively in dark corners and falling in love with people he couldn't have, because of gender or class or ambition. Brosca, who comes from a place where you must be drunk to tell the truth. The words themselves were difficult. Sometimes they still are.

But they are just as heartfelt in any form, and Zevran has spoken the words so many times insincerely that he struggles in his own way, on occasion.

Love for a moment is easy. He spoke words of love the first time he fell into bed with Brosca, and they both laughed them off. A little fun. A kind of game.

This is something else.

Zevran, returning slowly to himself, says, "my heart—"

Brosca kisses him. Soft and deep.

It will never be like this with anyone else.

Silence. 

He is himself. They are themselves.

They'll make it.

"The tea's going to be cold," Brosca says, and Zevran's surprised laughter fills the room, and yes, there it is—there they are.

"You don't even like tea," Zevran says.

"It's growing on me," Brosca says. "Fuck, I've spent too long around humans."

How valuable laughter is. How precious a resource, in these times.

Now, one can begin one's day. Now one can face the world, not unafraid, but unbowed. Stand in the middle of cataclysm, in this fortress which is the calm eye of the storm.

"Never mind," Zevran says. "At least you have my delightful company."

"At least there's that," Brosca agrees, and kisses him once more before swinging himself off the bed to stand, bare and proud, on the cool stone floor.

"I hope," Zevran says, "that they find happiness. It would please me. Someone ought to."

No need to say who.

"You're getting sentimental," Brosca says.

"I have always been sentimental," Zevran retorts. "You knew very well what you were getting yourself into, my love."

The ring. Brosca fingers it now, his face gone soft.

"Yeah," he says. "I guess I did." Tosses Zevran his clothes.

"Ah, a subtle hint," Zevran says. "Very well. Shall we see if we can pry some secrets of the blight from our darling Morrigan?"

"That's the plan," Brosca says. "We'll get out of this pit. We're not beaten yet. Come on, you know you want to piss her off."

"Oh," Zevran says, "I _do_. And I would hate to deprive her of a suitable target. I believe she respects you, you know."

Brosca laughs.

Cold tea and sweet fruit. Sunlight dappling the room. Brosca presses his fingers to the bruises he left on Zevran's hips, only now beginning to darken. A moment in which they share a hot look, and the morning is nearly disrupted a little longer. So many months of anxiety in which they had barely had sex at all. One must compensate.

But it passes. Clothes, knives, hastily fixed hair.

Here we are. Here, we turn our faces to a future we must do our best to believe exists.

"Come then," Zevran says, and puts on his smiling mask, and throws open the bedroom door to let in the world.


End file.
